Undeniable
by TheifSunako
Summary: Draco Malfoy is a prostitute. When strange man offers to buy him for the year, he has no choice but to say yes. AU. Master!Harry Fem!Draco


**Undeniable**

This is what it comes down to. Hands clenched around steel bars of the headboard, teeth gritted quietly, eyes closed while another pumps into my body. It isn't an act of desire…it's a matter of claiming property. It's stress relief in a pressure cooker for humans, it is silence broken by the small, wet sounds of a greased hole being used roughly and quickly and the terse grunts of the unsophisticated bastard behind me taking his pleasure. This is hell. This is my life, but it wasn't always like this. I came from heaven where the angels sip champagne and worry over brand names. It was a long way to fall.

My family was Old South nobility, back when things like that still mattered. After the Civil War they lost everything and moved north looking for a new start. My great-grandfather was a shrewd investor, and so was my grandfather. As for my father, by the time he took the helm of the family and controlled the fortune that had been left to him, he could have lit his cigars with thousand dollar bills and still never exhausted the interest on our accounts. Naturally, this being Chicago, he went for politics.

Father was the kind of man who made other people feel like they worked for him…even if they were nominally supposed to be the one in charge. The city aldermen of Chicago are a viper's nest of movers and shakers and money makers, but without the need for obvious graft, my father quickly became untouchable. It was never about money…it was all about power and influence. In truth, now that I can look back, life really doesn't deviate much from that on the streets. It's cruder and even more brutal, but it works the same as anywhere else.

I have come to realize that, no matter how much I adored her as a child, my mother is a self indulgent lush interested only in her own comforts. She is the ultimate trophy wife, and never complained because she really couldn't have cared less. Her husband is rich, she has everything she wants, and so nothing really matters. She's little more than a glorified blonde lapdog to my father, but that's neither here nor there. I know these things because I take after her in many ways.

Ours was the kind of family born into isolated luxury. Gated mansions and servants at beck and call. Cars and chauffeurs, stables and horses, gardens and parties that took weeks to plan. I am the product of private academies and tutors and piano lessons. I can speak French, Italian and Spanish and write or compose in them just as well as in English. It rather makes the irony of surviving based solely on my ability to sate an engorged cock somewhat more embittering, don't you think?

Among the upper class, being beautiful is a way of life. It is the norm. People wonder why the spectacularly wealthy always possess the glow of good health and look younger than they are. There is a reason for things being that way. It's called money. Doctors, nutritionists, dentists, plastic surgeons, personal coaches and an endless array of professionals who can help you change anything you don't like about yourself. All it takes is money.

Only when one is poor or of the lowest class is being beautiful a crime or a curse. You become vulnerable to those who hate you for being what they can never be. Even if all you have to call your own is the image of beauty and success…the fantasy of what it must be like to be as fabulous as the rock stars or famous actors, there are a hundred bitter souls who would take pleasure from stripping even that from you…just because they can. Those kinds of people tend to wind up here.

This is where beauty is a curse. It damns you to servitude or suffering, slavery or death. If you aren't strong enough to take, you become the taken. This is where I fit in. There shouldn't be any shame in being beautiful, but here, on this forsaken street, I wish I'd been born disfigured, or obscenely hairy, or morbidly obese. Anything but willow slender and smooth as a girl. Here, the way I look makes me a commodity. The only virtue in it is that, being exceptionally pretty, it was inevitable that whoever was strongest would claim me as their own, jealously guarding what they took to be their property.

I could have wound up like Nott. He could have been handsome enough, if he hadn't tried to fight back. He lost everything just like I did but he wasn't a faggot with the good sense to bend over and just try to get the job over with. Once the dentist removed the shattered bits and pulled out the roots, he was left with nothing but back molars in his mouth. They don't hire plastic surgeons for prostitutes. The reason his left eye looks like it droops is because the bones near his temple were smashed beyond easy repair. He's the kind of bitch that gets given away to anyone that needs him at the moment. As for me, I belong to Flint.

That brings us back to the fucking miserable bastard behind me, sweating and grunting, pushing hard just to be mean, making it worse than it has to be just because that's what he likes. Flint held the dubious distinction of being both strong and smart, even if he is a crude and miserable piece of shit. He owns the bigger part of the prostitution ring throughout the greater Midwest, from Michigan to Montana, he is also well known in this neck for robbery, arson, and weapon possession. Flint doesn't fear death…or pain…or anything else for that matter. He exists only to control or to hurt others, and he made himself right at home in this life. He blinded the first person that tried to steal his customers and hospitalized several of the others that tried to join in. It didn't take long before he assumed his position as the Pimp.

I assumed a position here too. The street I was placed on my first night was famous here. 'The Bitch Corner' was a street reserved for frail or small new arrivals that might need additional time to blend into population. I was pathetically grateful for it at the time, because I was eighteen and scared to death. The cruel irony of the Bitch Corner is that it immediately marks you. Everyone knows who the new arrivals are and what they look like, and being on that corner guarantees that you'll be private property or every man's toy within minutes of your release into the general population.

It was an hour past noon when Flint showed up with his goons at his side. I put on a brave face and pulled off the act of a lifetime. The siren…the seductress…every platinum blonde bombshell I'd ever seen in the movies guided my instincts. I vamped him the best I could, demanded that he be first, and gave the most ferocious, mind-shattering blowjob I'd ever given. I still had to do the others, but by then the hook was in, and from the corner of my eye I saw him watching while others enjoyed my talents. Jealousy and greed saved my life. As soon as his sidekicks were finished, instead of the gang rape they'd expected, Flint called me his own and I had become one of his whores. Power players can pull that kind of favour easily, and I was Flint's personal toy before the day was out. For the most part. Don't get me wrong, he loves to share, but only if its making him money. Good for me. Yay.

Flint has control over others, and influence with other leaders here. Flint gets what Flint wants…within reason. It also means that, as long as I play my part and don't ask for too much, I can get what I want. I don't want much, but there are things I need that are useful.

One of the other boys that works the corner with me gives away lubricant. Nothing good, just the cheapest brand of greasy petroleum jelly. The stuff that lingers and leaves you feeling like the cheap, dirty whore you are. Aside from that, I need very little, and I ask for very little. Flint likes that.

Flint doesn't like boys. He likes women, or rather he hates women enough to assault them, but he prefers to have sex with them…especially against their will. In fact, he hates fags and holds me in contempt, but he knows I make him good money. Yes, he has women whores, but they don't know what another man enjoys the way I do. They don't know what _Flint _enjoys the way I do. To make it a little easier for him to enjoy himself, he got cosmetics for me. Eyeliner and eye shadow, lipstick and nail polish. When I got here, I had my usual short hair and a cheap outfit. It's been 'customized' since then. My slacks were cut so short that they look like something Daisy Duke would wear, and my hair has been allowed to grow. It hasn't been cut since that first day, and it's past my shoulders now, bound in a pony tail with a rubber band. Not a very long one, but enough that, given my natural features, I look like a white trash prom queen. I make a fantasy come true for a few minutes, and I get to keep my pretty face intact. Flint mauled the last customer who bruised my face. Not for love's sake of course, but because someone hurt something of his without his permission. Yes…that's horrible. I know.

None of this means that Flint doesn't hurt me. When we have time I live out his private fantasies. Mock-rape. Or real rape when you acknowledge that I would rather be anywhere but here and my other choice is being hospitalized regularly or used by dozens of junkies and killers. Nott was HIV positive before he was here for a year. That could have been me, and if I'm not careful, it could still be me. Luckily, Flint takes care of his hoes. Thoughts like that make Flint's fist in my hair seem like a small price to pay. Pretending to be terrified, acting like a surprised victim until he comes, these are easy things to do. The bruises fade, the soreness goes away, and the cycle starts all over again.

If I play it carefully enough, I might just leave here with only one scar. The one where a modified piece of wire was heated to white-hot and pressed into my lower back, just above my ass. The wire was shaped like the letter 'F', Flint's brand, marking me as his, just to remind me in case I forgot. It only happened because I'd gotten just saucy enough to act demanding about something, and I'd picked the wrong day. He decided to make a big show of reminding me whose grace I lived by, and I didn't forget again.

A little about how it came to this. There are very few 'trashy' people on this street. So many people who were 'misunderstood', 'thrown out', or just got a bad break. At least Flint is proud of his crimes, and even if he belongs here, his honesty is occasionally refreshing. I could say I was mistreated. I could say that my father was unfair or that my lapdog mother was a moron and didn't care for me, and those things might be true…mostly, but at the end of the day, I was disowned because I was caught having an affair with a 'lowly' Weasley and not just once. Repeatedly. Not only that, but I had gone and fallen in love with her. I had even foolishly paid for her college tuition. Sadly, once my father kicked me out, leaving me no money to my name, she left me.

I was eighteen, and I was stupid, and I thought I was in love, or at least thought that I was wanted and valued. How I wish I'd had just a little of my current cynicism. I took Ginny's ass off the streets, made her the well-dressed trophy on my arm, and gave her nightclubs and adventure. I was gorgeous in the fine, cruel way that men with power can be, and of course, she loved it. She had wonderfully flaming red hair, the kind that made me think of a roaring fire, and wide, doe eyes that were surprisingly deep for brown. I was in infatuated.

In retrospect, I might have had a clue about the nature of our relationship, but I chose not to push it. I had a lot to prove, because I was technically a low level pusher and errand boy and still had to earn my way into a better position with my 'family'. Seventeen is pretty young for a person with responsibilities, but I was smooth talking and calm when others panicked. Ginny had admired that. How many other boys my age could afford to put her up in a nice apartment and take her shopping whenever she felt like it? Instead of second hand clothes I put her in outfits that made her look like a goddess. With me, she didn't mind the clothes hitting the floor when the lights went out. I was good in bed, or at least her attraction to me was so great that she honestly didn't care about anything but having me inside of her as often as she could get me excited, and I got excited a lot.

That kind of infatuation makes everything seem like a good idea. When she said she needed me to do a little favour for her, I did it without question. Shit…I was proud to be of use to her. I paid her college tuition. It was a lot of money. A lot of money that went missing abruptly, and I should have known better then to think Father wouldn't notice. Of course he did. And so that is how I ended up here, on this dank, dark street, a prostitute, a cheap and dirty whore, selling my body for money.

* * *

**Anything you recognize is work of Saymel. This is the only chapter where her work will be present. Everything else will be written by me.**

**TBC**


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